


Penance

by Assimbya



Category: Les liaisons dangereuses | Dangerous Liaisons - Choderlos de Laclos
Genre: Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assimbya/pseuds/Assimbya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cécile has survived the Marquise, but she still does not know how to understand her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for sexual coercion, rape, and related victim blaming.

Cécile knelt against the hard floor of the chapel and tried to fix her mind on prayer. Fingers clasped, back straight - she cannot afford a single moment of visible inattention, not when so many eyes are upon her, the Sisters and novices and young girls sneaking glances with their heads piously downcast. This is how it has been ever since she returned to the convent; hidden stares and open fascination and whispered conversations falling silent when she draws too near. It stings her, to be treated as a stranger in this place which once she knew as a home but she is not, whatever anyone else might think, so great a fool as not to understand what it is they whisper about. 

By now, the gossip has reached even Cécile in her solitude. She knows that the Vicomte is dead. And she knows, moreover, what secrets his death exposed to the world.

They expect her to being doing penance; let them, she decided to herself when she returned to the convent, see what they expect. She comes to every mass, and remains kneeling in the chapel for long stretches of time when mass is done. Her gown is simple, almost dowdy, the fabric rough and scratching against her elbows and thighs. She takes supper each night in her room, and eats only scantily, only the plainest foods. She turns herself to a model of modesty, of maidenly repentance. Let all of them, in their curiosity, imagine how greatly she must regret her transgression.

The truth is that Cécile does not know what it is she regrets. She turns the events of the past months over and over in her mind in search of some clear, shining moment in which she strayed away once and forever from the path of righteousness, but she cannot find one solid enough to turn within her hands and name as sin. For it was not sin to love Danceny, not innocently and truly as she did. It was not sin to listen to the guidance of the Marquise de Merteuil, who her own dear Mamma had instructed her to respect and honor, and who all the world named as the most proper of women. Perhaps it was sin to keep secrets from her Mamma, but not so great a sin as this, as the mortal one which she now was charged with.

Was it a sin, then, not to fight? Not to scream? 

Was it a sin that she had not recognized, in the Marquise’s calm injunction to return to the Vicomte’s bedroom, the poisonous venom of malice?

The first time she had come to confession after her arrival at the convent the priest sat before her in what seemed to be a state of tense anticipation, waiting for her to unfold to him some sordid tale of pride and lust. She had not known what to say. It was not a story yet, in her mind; it was only flashes of memory - the heat of Valmont’s fingers, the wetness of her own blood, the metallic scent of the little, deadly key in her palm.

If she thought too much about it she felt dizzy, she felt like she was slipping away from herself, losing the thread of the tale like a swift-flowing stream. And beneath it all she heard the Marquise’s steady voice, smooth and constant, lulling Cécile into stillness as, when she was a girl, her nurse used to do by brushing out her hair with gentle strokes. And so she sat, for many long moments, before the priest until embarrassment finally came over her and she blurted out some nonsense which she could not afterwards recall and dashed away from the chapel.

-

The Marquise dismissed the maid and closed the curtains and the room felt as though it would suffocate Cécile with its silence.

“Come now, my dear,” the Marquise said, her voice smooth as cream, “show me what Valmont has taught you.”

Cécile will always have difficulty thinking clearly about this afternoon, once it is over. When she tries to remember it, her head will pound and her vision will reel and she will feel herself unsteady on her feet. She will not have names for what transpired. She will not know how to recount it to anyone who was not present.

She did not anticipate any of that then. Then, she blushed and looked down and played with the lace at the edges of her sleeves. “What do you mean?”

The Vicomte laughed. He had spread himself out across the divan, the sharp heels of his shoes carefully averted from the embroidered upholstery. “Don’t be coy, Cécile - the Marquise knows all about our lessons. She simply wants to see how you have been getting on. We can’t have all the time and effort she’s devoted to her little protege coming to nothing, now, can we?”

He was beginning already to undo the gleaming buttons on his waistcoat. Cécile felt nausea build in her throat and thought it a childish reaction, one she was ashamed to feel before the Marquise’s cool gaze. 

She could not do this.

Before she could think more about it, Cécile left her chair and knelt at the Marquise’s side, grasping her skirts, resting her forehead against them. “Oh please, Madame, I know it is foolish of me, but I simply cannot - you know how grateful I am for all you have done for me, I beg you, do not think less of me on account of this, but I -”

Her words were stilled upon her tongue by the feel of the Marquise’s fingers upon her hair, lightly caressing her. “You know how much love I have for you, my dear, and yet you are blushing so! Do you truly think that I would ask anything of you that would bring you shame? My dear Cécile, if you truly wish to be ready for your Chevalier, then you shall need someone other than your teacher to observe your performance and correct your technique. Of course, if you would rather not…” 

The fingers stroking Cécile’s hair lightly closed, and the touch, so familiar and reassuring, was gone.

Something like panic swelled in Cécile’s sternum at the palpability of the Marquise’s disapproval. She could not look at the Vicomte. She could not think about what it is she was expected to do with him. But she could not disappoint the Marquise’s expectations in her either.

“I’m sorry, I - I will try.”

The Marquise leaned down and kissed Cécile’s cheek. Cécile could smell her perfume, sweet and strong, and the powdery scent of her face paint. “There’s my good girl. You have nothing to be afraid of, darling - it’s only me and Valmont. Just let me see what you’ve been working on.”

Cécile stood, and held the Marquise’s words in her mind, and went to join the Vicomte de Valmont upon the divan.

-

She kept wanting to write to the Marquise. It was a foolish, impossible wish, in the first place simply because she had no means of getting a letter out to her. She could hardly put it in with the other mail to be sent out from the convent, and she has no means now of paying someone to take it in secret, or even finding someone who might take on such a task. And besides, she has had enough of secret correspondence, of letters whose script was tangled up with desire and deception and cruelty. That time in her life was over.

And Cécile did not now, when she stopped to think about it, what she would say to the Marquise, if she had the chance. She did not know if it would be possible to make the other woman understand how much her machinations had harmed her, for how could she enfold in a letter the betrayed tears on her Mamma’s face, the contemptuous glances of the girls at the convent, the pain and terror of her miscarriage? And, if she could somehow manage to write a letter which could communicate any or all of that, what assurance could she have that the Marquise would care?

Perhaps she would laugh. Perhaps she would smile lightly and shake her head and lay the letter aside. Perhaps she would write back. Cécile could imagine for herself what she might say, see the curling letters in her mind:

_Dearest Cécile,_

_You can imagine how disappointed I was to receive your letter. To have thought so highly of a young person, and to have put so much time and care into developing her intellect and accomplishments, only to be rewarded with such grievous accusations of cruelty and harm! You must know, my dear, that all the advice I gave was intended only for your benefit and, though it saddens me to be so blunt to a child I hold so dear, any harm you came to was the result of your errors alone._

_I strove to provide you with all the opportunities and experiences which would enable your development into a fine young lady, fit to enter into the highest ranks of society. I saw you as one who would appreciate those opportunities, and put them to the best possible use; I appear to have been mistaken. I apologize, my dear, for my error in judgment, which seems to have exposed you to chances of a sophistication for which you were not yet prepared._

No, she did not need to write to the Marquise. She had enough of her words in her mind already.

Much later, when she had begun to settle back into life at the convent, Cécile heard about the Marquise’s illness, and about her subsequent withdrawal from society. She had not known how to feel, and had needed to excuse herself from the large chamber in which she and many of the other women sat working together on embroidery for the altar cloth. Part of her felt a keen delight at the Marquise’s misfortune, a sense that finally she had received a punishment fitting to her misdeeds. But another part of her could not help but doubt the thrill of her fury; she felt again the gentle fingers in her hair, heard the smooth steadiness of the voice which had calmed her through so many griefs and anxieties. How could she, how could anyone know who the Marquise was, or what she might deserve?

And it was true that Cécile had, ultimately, learned much from her. Once her Mamma had first learned of all that had happened, she stormed through Cécile’s room with the intention of taking and burning all her letters, from Danceny and Valmont and the Marquise herself. She tore the little writing desk apart searching for them, stripped the sheets from the bed and the little collection of prayer books and novels from the shelf. Cécile watched, keeping her face cool and impassive, feeling the letters crinkling against her thigh, bound to her garter with a length of green ribbon.

In the convent she kept the letters safely tucked away in the spine of a prayer book, but the green ribbon remained tied lightly around her thigh, its smooth pressure reminding her to be patient and still and entirely opaque, to bide her time until the day she could find her way out this place and into a life that belonged only to her.


End file.
